


kangteuk | the velveteen galatea

by potatochul (ai_hao)



Category: Super Junior
Genre: Author: Hao, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-04
Updated: 2015-03-04
Packaged: 2018-03-16 06:26:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3477842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ai_hao/pseuds/potatochul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Kangin wants is to be real.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just as plagiarized as the title suggests. I regret nothing.

The block is set down on a wooden floor.

It’s traveled a long and bumpy road from the quarry where it was first cut, full of unpleasant sounds and dark places and grumpy voices. It has been run into walls and doors and other things that it can’t identify, each time accompanied by an angry burst of swearing. But the floor feels stable, not like a cart or the back of a truck.

There’s a scratching sound of pen on paper and a “thank you, that’s all” from a man with a voice the block hasn’t heard before today. It’s different than the other voices, higher, happier. The block likes this voice. A door closes as someone leaves; the block hopes the voice is still here.

“Hello.”

It’s the good voice. The block realizes it is being addressed, but can say nothing in response.

“I have big plans for you,” the voice continues. “Marble isn’t really in my budget right now, but sometimes you get an idea and plain old paint just won’t do, you know how it is. I wanted to make strength, so nothing but stone would work, and there’s no stone that can seem quite so human—so _alive_ —as marble. So here we are. I’m calling you Kangin, _kang_ for strength, _in_ for benevolence. I wanted to try to portray both together.”

The white sheen of Kangin’s exterior brightens a bit. A name. Kangin had never imagined being given a name, nor the infectious sound the voice would give to that word—alive. Kangin wants it without really understanding what it means, just so the voice will say it like that again.

The floor creaks in a circle of footsteps around Kangin, then away and back, accompanied by a clinking of metal tools. Kangin feels a crack, crack, crack—then a piece of marble breaks clean off.

“I like to imagine when I’m sculpting that there’s a person in here who I’m freeing from a stone prison,” the voice says. And that’s just how Kangin feels. The world becomes clearer as piece after piece breaks away, a blunt awareness of light and dark giving way to colors and shapes, a dull sensation of touch becoming sharp and specific. It doesn’t hurt, really, but is more like you might feel getting a cast removed. The newly revealed rock feels raw and vulnerable touching air for the first time.

Kangin is anxious to be rid of all the excess stone, but the process isn’t finished at the end of that day, nor the next, nor the next. Over the course of the first week, Kangin learns several things. The voice is a young man. Kangin can’t see well enough yet to make out his features, but he seems to be on the smaller, slighter side. Other people who come into the room call him Leeteuk, except for his mother and sister, who answer “Jungsoo-yah” every day when he calls them. Jungsoo sounds more like him.

Every once in a while Kangin hears people coming and going in other adjacent rooms, always announced by a bell that tells Jungsoo he has a visitor. They never walk through the door to Kangin’s room, save one, a middle-aged woman who pokes her head in.

“What have we got here?” she asks.

“He’s a work in progress,” Jungsoo says with a proud smile at Kangin. So Kangin is a he. He thinks that sounds just right.

Jungsoo doesn’t work on him every day. Sometimes Jungsoo will get a phone call from some loud, annoyed sounding person and Kangin will hardly see him for days on end, though he’ll always come in while he’s brushing his teeth or combing his hair or sweeping the floors and give Kangin a long, hard look, as if he’s trying to make out the shape of the human in the rough marble. Maybe he’ll even walk over and make a chip here or there—then he’ll turn around and walk right back out. Other times, he’ll carry a half-finished piece in with him and sit down with it, a frustrated look on his face, pointing out all its flaws and asking Kangin what he should do about it. Even though Kangin doesn’t know anything about art, somehow Jungsoo always manages to find a solution to his problem after talking to him.

Kangin realizes that these breaks are how Jungsoo makes money. Jungsoo will bring in a painting or a sculpture and hold it up to Kangin, asking, “Do you think this looks ready?” Kangin can’t answer, of course, or even really see whatever Jungsoo is holding, but nonetheless Jungsoo will give a satisfied nod and say, “Well, if you think it is, then it is.” Not long after, some stranger will come in with money, and that will be the last Kangin ever hears of that piece. Sometimes Kangin wonders if this is what will happen to him someday, but he tries not to think about it.

Once a month an angry man who Jungsoo calls the landlord comes in looking for rent. Kangin’s not sure what rent is, but it must be very difficult to find, because sometimes Jungsoo doesn’t have it. He always spends a little more time with Kangin right after he has rent. Sometimes he says wild things like “this time I’m locking myself in this room and not answering to anybody until I’m finished with you.” Kangin learns not to expect too much from these declarations after the first few times.

Still, it’s not as though Jungsoo has abandoned him. Far from it. Month by month, piece by piece, the excess stone is chipped away, so that Kangin can finally begin to feel the shape of what Jungsoo wants him to become. The tools become smaller and more focused, each adjustment tinier and tinier. As his body becomes more defined, Kangin’s senses are fine-tuned as well. He knows the light scratch of the charcoal Jungsoo uses to trace areas to be cut away, the tickle of bristles brushing off chipped rock and dust, the fine roughness of the hem of Jungsoo’s old, stained work jeans as it accidentally rubs against Kangin’s foot. His hearing improves, and now he can discern sounds outside his own room, and eavesdrops on the conversations of the paintings in the other workshop. They’re mostly inane and all annoying, and Kangin isn’t sad to be separated from them.

The only feeling he still knows nothing about is Jungsoo’s skin. Jungsoo is always very careful not to touch him, for some reason about staining and skin oils that he’s only half explained, like most of the things he says. Kangin supposes he’ll never find out.

Besides the increasing clarity of his senses, Kangin also notices an increasing clarity in his mind. He can’t explain it, but the more Jungsoo talks to him, the easier it feels to think, and when Jungsoo leaves him alone for a few days, he starts to feel dull and confused and blockish again.

It’s not until month ten, though, that Kangin can finally see clearly. Jungsoo walks in carrying a new tool, a flat piece of rough, toothed metal that he calls a rasp.

“You’re getting a proper face today,” he says. If Kangin could talk, he would point out that his toes haven’t even been marked out of the undefined blocks that make up his feet, but Jungsoo looks determined. He scrapes at a few spots on Kangin’s forehead, cheekbones, and jaw, but quickly moves onto his eyes, defining eyelids out of the roughly formed sockets. Every so often he walks out of Kangin’s view and comes back holding a piece of clay, a model that is the only way Kangin has of knowing what he looks like. Jungsoo will stare at the model for a moment, then at Kangin, then back, and make a tiny scrape before repeating the process. He mutters to himself, but it’s all “that needs to be softer,” “the angle there is wrong,” none of the cheerful, idle chatter Kangin is used to hearing when Jungsoo works. He’s concentrating. Kangin knows this part is important. For the first time, he feels the closest to what he could call pain, not an unpleasant feeling, but an urgency to each grain of dust as Jungsoo shaves away the last of the barrier between vision and reality. It almost seems like, with one wrong move, Kangin would start bleeding out of the mistake like an open wound—but Jungsoo’s hand is steady and sure and Kangin knows he won’t lose a single speck of what is truly _him_.

Finally, the job is done. Jungsoo gently brushes away the last of the dust, and when he pulls his hand back, the world, once blurry colors and obscured lines, is completely clear.

“Can you see me?” Jungsoo asks, leaning in close to inspect his work. “Hello!” He waves, then breaks into giggles, his cheeks creasing with dimples on either side of his lips. A layer of white dust lays on his hair and is kicked up every time he moves. Kangin can see a similarity between Jungsoo and himself in the way his eyes turn up when he smiles, but also differences: Jungsoo’s face is slimmer and more elflike, giving him a delicate appearance. It’s not just his face that looks delicate, either. Despite the lines of lean muscle Kangin can now make out on his upper body, Jungsoo’s frame reminds Kangin of the wine glass that Jungsoo brought in once and accidentally tipped over, that fell five inches to the table’s surface and shattered. He is fragile. And while Jungsoo is always telling Kangin that he has to be careful because marble is so easy to break, Kangin can’t help but think that people are more breakable by far.

“Hold on a second,” Jungsoo says, then runs out of the room. He comes back carrying his laptop with one hand, punching its keys with the other. The laptop emits a low, rhythmic beeping for a few seconds, followed by a crackle. “Inyoung?” Jungsoo asks.

“Is there something wrong?” Kangin hears her reply. He’s used to the sound of her voice by now. Occasionally Jungsoo will bring in his computer to show her how his work is coming along, but he always stands far enough back that Kangin has never been able to see her face clearly. Kangin imagines her as Jungsoo with longer hair. “You don’t usually call this early…” She sounds like she’s suppressing a yawn; Kangin remembers that she’s out of the country studying, and it’s always earlier there than it is here, so Jungsoo usually doesn’t call her until late at night.

“Come look at what I did today,” Jungsoo says. He bounds over to Kangin and holds the computer up close. “He’s really coming together now.”

“Can he see me?” Inyoung asks. Kangin finally can. Her appearance isn’t entirely similar to Jungsoo’s, but the fact that the first question out of her mouth is the same as his makes it obvious that they’re related.

“Of course he can. He’s not _blind_.”

“Oh, obviously. Why did I even ask?” She chuckles. “You know, Jungsoo, your customers might start to think you’re crazy if you start introducing them to all your art.”

He turns the computer back around toward himself with a surprised and slightly embarrassed laugh. “Noona!”

“If I get a call from the local psychiatric ward next week…”

“Kangin, you don’t think I’m crazy, do you?” He looks up at Kangin for a few moments, then back at Inyoung, raising his eyebrows in vindication. “See, I’m fine.”

“ _I_ don’t think you’re crazy. I’m just worrying because I love you. You know that, right?”

“Yes.” He blows a kiss to the screen. “I love you too, noona. You can go back to sleep now.”

Jungsoo finishes work on Kangin’s nose and mouth over the next few days before he returns to the rest of Kangin’s body, even his neglected toes. Kangin can tell that the tone of Jungsoo’s work has changed. Words like “almost done” and “just right” start to appear in his sentences, replacing “enough for now” and “take care of that later.” Kangin knows he’s close to being finished.

But with that comes a prickle of nervousness. He knows from listening to the paintings that “finished” means Jungsoo will start looking for a buyer, and if one is interested, Kangin could never see Jungsoo again. And who knows what the buyer could be like? Some of the ones he’s heard seem nice enough, but others sound downright unbearable. Certainly none of them seem like the type to talk to him the way Jungsoo does. Even a few weeks like that, and he would go right back to being an ordinary block of stone—that would be the end of him, at least of any version of him that would actually _matter_. Kangin has never considered the possibility of his own death before, but suddenly it’s breathing down his neck. He begins to dread the sound of the doorbell.

It’s another two months of tweaking, a little scratch here, a little touch there, before Jungsoo seems to think that the major part of the sculpting is done. He still comes in to talk to Kangin, but rarely works on him anymore. Even the paintings he can hear talking through the wall, who generally don’t care about the old thing in the other room, start to make bets on how long he has left.

Then, fourteen months and eight days after Kangin first arrived in Jungsoo’s house, the first buyer appears.

Kangin knows the man’s voice from earlier visits: it has a posh, haute tone, like his very vocal chords are made of solid gold. Jungsoo always worries to Kangin after the man leaves that he might leave a bad review in the art criticism journal he writes for because he misunderstands one of Jungsoo’s works. “He has no appreciation for the soul of art, Kangin, the way a piece can really come _alive_ in the eyes of the right viewer.” (There’s that word again, the one Kangin wants desperately, but whose meaning always slips out of his grasp.) That doesn’t stop the whole art world from eating out of his hand, though, and a declaration from him that an artist’s work is “conventional” or “uninspired” can send even a flourishing career to an early grave.

“Don’t try to distract me, Leeteuk. I’ve heard a rumor that you’re keeping a secret project ferreted away in that back room of yours and I simply cannot leave until I’ve set eyes on it.”

Jungsoo laughs, but Kangin can tell it’s unnatural, not like the laughs that escape his lips in lieu of a response after he tells Kangin a particularly cringe-worthy joke. “You’re going to miss all of my new work! See, look at this watercolor—“

“Damn watercolors. The age of watercolor is past. I want something revolutionary, and I know that secret project of yours is it.” The man makes quick, long strides across the room, accompanied by running steps that Kangin recognizes by their weight and rhythm as Jungsoo’s.

“Really, sir!” But Jungsoo’s complaint goes unrecognized and the man flings the door to Kangin’s room open. He looks exactly like his voice: tall, with an obviously expensive outfit (despite the fact that the entirety of Kangin’s experience with clothing comes from Jungsoo and his paintings, he can tell this much), greased back hair, and an elitist expression etched into the wrinkles of his face.

His eyes widen as he looks Kangin up and down. “Exquisite,” he breathes. “It seems almost as if it could come alive at any moment…”

At being called an “it” after months of knowing he’s a “he”, Kangin feels something that he can only describe as anger. If Kangin could run, he’d be halfway down the block by now. He’s sure just a couple hours around this guy would finish him off.

Jungsoo stomps through the door and stands between the man and Kangin. “This work is not available for public viewing at the moment, sir.”

“Leeteuk, you must sell this to me.” He grabs Jungsoo by the arms. “Name your price.”

“No.” Jungsoo shakes him off, but the man is persistent and steps closer. Kangin bristles.

“I don’t think you appreciate just how valuable my offer is. When I purchase a piece, I don’t just pay money—I have greater influence than you might realize in the high circles of the art world, and I can give a no-name like you recognition and status that you would never earn otherwise.”

“He is _not for sale_.” Jungsoo stands on his toes and glares daggers right into the man’s eyes. Something in his look mixed with the questionable psychological stability of someone who refers to a statue as “he” makes the man back off. “Now, I have plenty of other works in this gallery that are, so feel free to consider them.”

The man puts on a face that expresses the exact depth of the indignity with which he feels he’s been treated. “I’ll have to think about it,” he says. “Good day to you, Leeteuk.” And with that, he walks out.

Jungsoo lets out a sigh of relief and closes the door after him. Grabbing a piece of sandpaper off the workbench, he walks over to polish a dull spot on Kangin’s cheek. “I think I just lost my richest customer,” he says, a hint of displeasure behind his smile. “And all of his followers. But I don’t mind!” The displeasure disappears. “I’d rather lose them than you.”

Kangin wishes he could hug Jungsoo or thank him or at least _smile_ , but he can’t.

“Besides,” Jungsoo says, with one of the laughs that warns Kangin a bad joke is coming, “everyone likes artists better if they’re a little crazy. I mean, look at Van Gogh. Maybe if I lop off my ear and stick it on you…”

Now Kangin just wants to hit him—not to hurt him, of course, just a playful punch that says “that was terrible” and “I love you anyways” at the same time.

Jungsoo finishes polishing the offending spot, blows the dust off, and walks out, still cracking himself up. It’s the greasy rich man who has the last laugh, though. Jungsoo can count his customers for the rest of the month on his fingers, and when the day the landlord always comes to collect the rent rolls around, Jungsoo’s face has a noticeably paler cast than usual.

“I can’t be late on my rent again or the landlord will kill me,” he says, plopping down on a chair. “If I skip breakfast and lunch today, I’ll have just enough to pay. But I’m hungry…” He pouts. Kangin marvels at the frailty of this little human, who looks this weak after going just half a day without eating. Kangin doesn’t need to eat. He’s strong, just like Jungsoo named him. He wonders if this weakness is what it means to be alive, and suddenly it doesn’t sound so appealing.

There’s a loud pounding on the door that continues until Jungsoo runs over to answer it.

“Rent,” the landlord’s voice says.

“It’s in here.” Jungsoo scampers back into Kangin’s room and picks up the rectangle of paper for the rent from the workbench. The landlord follows him in and enters Kangin’s line of sight for the first time. He’s larger than Jungsoo, but mostly in width, a sweat-stained wifebeater stretching over his beer gut and a faint scent of alcohol hanging in the air around him. He eyes Jungsoo’s paper rectangle, carefully examining it for any potential flaw, but grunts, apparently seeing nothing, and stuffs it into his back pocket.

“Some lady at the door for you,” he says. “Says it’s important.” He looks over in Kangin’s direction and frowns. “How long are you going to hang onto that thing? You wouldn’t be late on your rent every fucking month if you just hocked it.” Kangin sees Jungsoo bite back an angry retort as the landlord walks out.

“Sorry,” Jungsoo says. Kangin wants to say the same thing. Jungsoo walks over and brushes off a stray bit of dust on his nose, a sympathetic frown on his face, then remembers his visitor and runs out to answer the door.

“Umma?” Jungsoo asks, surprise evident in his voice. Kangin knows Jungsoo’s mother isn’t in good health and rarely leaves the house.

“Jungsoo,” her familiar voice says from outside. “Come here, you’re going to want to sit down.”

The door creaks shut behind them, and Kangin has to strain to hear them. He only catches a few words:  
“It was so sudden”   
“called just this afternoon”   
“Inyoung”   
“the police say”   
“accident”   
“killed instantly”

Inyoung. Jungsoo’s sister. The one he calls every day even if she’s out of the country, the only person besides his mother who Kangin hears him talk about consistently. Dead.

There is a long silence, broken only by a long, helpless wail, and the sound of the landlord turning on his television downstairs.

“The funeral’s in two days,” Jungsoo’s mother says, her voice cracking. “We can go home now. Get your things.”

Jungsoo’s footsteps drift over the floor. There’s a soft sound of clothes being thrown together haphazardly, a clatter of used brushes being dropped into boxes. He comes to Kangin’s room last. His eyes are lined with red, and his face is shattered in a way that Kangin’s could never be, a human way that sends fractures through his whole being. It looks just as irreparable as taking a sledgehammer to Kangin’s chest. Jungsoo’s eyes linger on Kangin for a long moment, as if he has something to say—but then he breaks away abruptly, throws a sheet over Kangin’s body, and runs out, turning the light off as he goes.


	2. Part 2

 

Kangin can’t tell how long he has been alone in the dark.

The paintings go quiet after a few days. Either that, or his hearing goes dead. In the dark he has no way of knowing.

His blunted senses remind him of being in the quarry, and he begins to feel blockish again. Without Jungsoo around to fill his mind, he finds it harder and harder to piece together ideas. Eventually, he just gives up.

Dust settles around the block. Its last conscious thought is that it has been forgotten.

*

Unnumbered hours later, a voice pierces through the fog around the block.

“Do you have anywhere available right now with a lower rent?”

The block knows this voice from somewhere.

“The basement. I don’t rent it out normally ‘cause it has asbestos, but I’ll give it to you for 300 less.”

It knows that voice, too. Doesn’t like it.

“What if I give up the studio downstairs?”

“I’ll take off another thousand. Provided you move your shit out today, that is.”

There’s a pause. “Can’t you go any lower? Please, my mother’s been in and out of the hospital, she doesn’t have insurance, and the Social Security checks won’t cover an emergency—”

A loud slam. “ _Did I say I wanted to hear your fucking sob stories?!_ ”

“N-no.” The fear in the good voice awakens something in the block. He wants to break, tear, smash the bad voice so that the good one will be safe.

“Then quit wasting my time and get to moving.”

A door opens and light shines on the block, dulled and muffled by something—a sheet. He hears footsteps, then the sheet is pulled off.

“Hello, old friend. I missed you.”

Jungsoo.

Kangin remembers.

There’s a smile on Jungsoo’s face, but it’s small and tired and doesn’t make dimples in his cheeks. The fracture from when he left has been patched but not healed.

“We’re moving today,” he says. “I hope you don’t mind. Money’s a little tight now that—” He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t need to. Kangin knows that Inyoung always took care of their mother financially, and Jungsoo isn’t really stable enough to manage it on his own.

Jungsoo walks out and makes a few phone calls, then works on packing up the other rooms for a few hours until the movers arrive. They come in and size Kangin up. He can tell by the strain in Jungsoo’s voice that he’s nervous as he describes how they’re going to do the move. First they wrap Kangin in blankets from head to base so that all his senses are muffled. He feels straps being tightened all around him, then straining as he is lifted into the air. Finally he’s lowered back down and sealed into what seems to be a padded crate.

There’s a familiar series of angry grunts, just like when he was brought in, as he moves down, down, down. With every step he braces himself for a final crack. Then, just as quickly as it started, it stops. The process is reversed as he’s set back on his feet on a new, cold cement floor, and everything but the blankets is removed. Kangin hears Jungsoo pay the movers, and their heavy footsteps clunk up the stairs, leaving him and Jungsoo alone.

“Let’s get you out of these blankets so you can see your new home.” He begins to undo the straps holding the blankets onto Kangin, one by one.

“Thank God you’re safe,” he breathes. “I don’t know what I would do without you.” Kangin doesn’t know, either. What happens to humans when they’re left by themselves? Maybe they turn into stone, too.

Jungsoo unwraps all the blankets except the last one attached in the back around Kangin’s waist. It only goes up to his chin, so Kangin can see where he’s been moved: he faces an old brick wall of a dark basement, illuminated only by an old lightbulb and a tiny barred window near the ceiling. Directly in front of him is a low bed with threadbare sheets, and in his peripheral vision he can see a dirty bathroom and a tattered chest of drawers next to a staircase leading up and out. This seems to be the only furniture. Dust clings to every available surface and floats through the chink of sunlight in the wake of their entrance. Kangin doesn’t know much about money besides the prices Jungsoo asks for his art, but he’s certain this rat-hole isn’t worth half what the landlord is charging.

“One more,” Jungsoo mutters. He threads his arms between Kangin’s elbows and his waist to reach the clasp, then stops and looks up at his face.

“I really did miss you.” He leans forward and rests his head on the blanket, on the center of Kangin’s chest. “I wished I could have brought you with me. I needed a friend and I—I don’t really have…any….” Jungsoo’s voice shudders and his arms tighten around Kangin’s waist as his tears soak into the blanket. But Kangin can tell he’s still holding back. Jungsoo has said a thousand times that marble is horrible at supporting its own weight, and if Kangin tipped just a centimeter to either side unsupported, he’d fall over and break into pieces. Kangin does his best to stay upright in the full knowledge that his best means nothing, and the ache of not being able to pull Jungsoo into his arms feels nearly strong enough to crush him.

Beyond all that, though, Kangin is aware of a completely new sensation. Where their chests are pressed together, just barely perceptible through the blanket is a faint, rhythmically pulsing thump. Kangin doesn’t know what it is, only that he doesn’t have one, and wonders if this is what makes you alive.

The thump ratchets up twice as strong as the upstairs door opens. “You left a box—” the landlord yells down, then stops. “What the hell are you doing? Getting off on a statue?” He shakes his head and mutters, “Faggot. Anyway, get your shit out of my studio or I’ll start charging you for it.” He kicks a box in and slams the door.

Jungsoo runs up to rescue his belongings from tumbling down the stairs. He doesn’t look at Kangin for a minute as he brings them down and sets them on the bed, then slowly turns around, embarrassment evident in the way that his eyes stay off to the side as he reaches around and undoes the last clasp. He doesn’t address what just happened—doesn’t have to; both he and Kangin know better than to give an ounce of credence to the landlord’s ravings.

Jungsoo doesn’t talk to him for the rest of the day. He dusts the basement and brings his paintings down from the studio, then arranges his few personal belongings. The last thing he pulls out is a photograph Kangin has never seen before of a younger Jungsoo with a girl who looks like him—Inyoung, he recognizes. Jungsoo debates about where to put it for a moment, then sets it on top of the dresser, visible from his bed and from where Kangin is standing. Night falls outside the little window. Finally, the last thing set out, Jungsoo turns out the lights and climbs into bed.

“Good night, Kangin,” he says quietly, then curls up into a ball and falls asleep.

“Well, well, look who decided to join the rest of us,” says a voice from behind him. Kangin can’t see the source, but recognizes it as a painting of a woman in a green dress who is constantly complaining that she will never be sold because Jungsoo didn’t make her beautiful enough. “Not so nice being knocked off your high horse, is it?”

“Don’t bother. I bet he can’t even speak.” This one is a clay sculpture of a disembodied hand holding a book.

Kangin realizes with some shame that he’s never really tried. He knows from experience that the other art speaks in a secret language humans can’t hear, so there’s no chance of him being able to say anything to Jungsoo. He digs down inside of himself, looking for a voice. “I can too speak!” he tries, and succeeds. The sound is surprising at first but immediately makes sense; it’s low and strong and comes from deep in his chest.

“Listen to that. He even talks like a dumb block of rock.” The sneering voice who speaks this comes from Jungsoo’s only, and unsuccessful, attempt at cubism. Jungsoo told Kangin once that it was inspired by the greasy rich man, and though Kangin can see the resemblance, others simply find it uncomfortable.

Then a new voice breaks in. “That’s enough, all of you!”

Kangin would have jumped up in surprise if he could. He knows this voice, but didn’t think he would ever hear it again. “Inyoung?” he asks.

“Over here.” Her voice comes from the photo on the dresser. “It’s good to see you again, Kangin.”

“But how are you here? You’re dead.”

“Because you’re so alive yourself.” The photograph doesn’t move, of course, but he can hear a smirk in her tone. “Jungsoo loved this photograph, the last thing he had of his sister, and so I took on a little bit of what he thought of me. It’s no different from the way he loved the best statue he ever carved, who he couldn’t bear to sell even though the money from it would let him move out of this awful house and not worry about paying a bill for years.”

“So you’re not…alive.” He can’t keep the disappointment out of his voice.

“No, but this image of me remembers what it means.”

Kangin’s mood picks up. “Really?! Wait, I think I know. It’s that…sort of  _dugun dugun_  sound that Jungsoo’s chest makes, isn’t it?”

Inyoung laughs. “Well, that’s certainly part of it—the physical part, at least. Not the best indicator. Plenty of people have beating hearts and are far less alive than you are. No, the real secret…” she drops her voice. “…is love.”

Kangin is silent. Jungsoo has never talked to him about love. He’s heard rumors from the paintings, but what do they know?

“I can’t tell you what love is. You have to find it for yourself,” Inyoung says. “But I can at least tell you the rule.

“There’s a magic to art, you know. My brother feels it but doesn’t understand it. He’s always talking about the soul of art, and what he means is the way that he pours his own soul out into his artwork, so that for him, each piece is a little bit alive. Some pieces more than others. I’ve never seen him produce anything like you before.” This earns scoffs from the paintings, but she ignores them. “And on very rare occasions, an artist will create something so close to being alive that with a little bit of magical help, it could cross the barrier and become so.”

“Become…alive,” Kangin repeats. The word tastes sweeter now that it feels so near.

“There’s a rule, though. The world is full of bad people, and the magic isn’t about to add to that number. Before a creation can become alive, it has to pass a test: it must love its artist more than itself. That is to say, it must want to be alive, not for its own selfish reasons, but completely for the sake of the artist. And the artist must love it just as much.”

“So you could become alive, Inyoung,” Kangin says. “Jungsoo needs you. He’s not the same without you.”

“I wish I could.” Her voice is heavy and poignant. “But Inyoung has already been alive, and I’m just a shadow of her former self. The magic only works for new creations. No, the one he needs right now is  _you_ , Kangin.”

He doesn’t respond; he knows it’s useless to protest that he doesn’t even know what being alive really means, let alone what love is. Inyoung can’t help him there. Instead, he looks down at Jungsoo’s sleeping form, the tiny ball of his body rising and falling gently under the tattered comforter, and spends the night racking his brain for any way he could pass the test.

It becomes clear to Kangin over the next few weeks that Jungsoo is not the same as when he left. He sleeps longer and takes more time in the morning to get up; some days he doesn’t get up at all. Kangin knows that humans are supposed to eat three times a day, but sometimes Jungsoo forgets, perhaps intentionally. The numbers he mutters as he budgets his money get smaller and smaller as he goes longer and longer without making a sale. He paints new things, but they all come out dark and morbid, and when talking to Kangin doesn’t fix what’s wrong with them, they end up unfinished in a corner. Their whining becomes a constant fixture in the background.

Hardly anyone comes down to look at Jungsoo’s work now. Kangin knows he has a sign up in the studio, where someone else has moved in now, but Kangin can’t think of an appealing way to say “come down to the dark, scary basement for more!” and he’s sure Jungsoo can’t, either. In the beginning, old customers come by looking for Jungsoo. It goes the same with each one. They’ll come downstairs, all smiles, glad to see the artist they used to like is still around. That smile will freeze in place as they take in Jungsoo’s increasingly haggard appearance, and start to falter as they look around at the unfinished new work starting to fill the room. By the time they make some sort of polite excuse and leave, their expression is more fear than anything else. Both Jungsoo and Kangin know that if a formerly loyal customer comes down to the basement, that’s the last they’ll ever see of them.

“They know he’s gone off the deep end,” the abstract painting scoffs.

“Completely lost it,” the green woman agrees.

“Look on the bright side,” one of the new paintings puts in, one that had been given up before it was really started, just a gray, rainy-looking blob on the canvas. “This will make for fantastic press after he dies.”

Kangin watches Jungsoo shutting the door behind yet another lost customer and dragging his feet back down the stairs. “Is this what it means to be alive?” he asks Inyoung.

“Part of it,” Inyoung admits. “If you become alive, you’ll find that some parts are much harder than anything you’ve experienced so far.”

Kangin wonders again whether this is something he really wants.

After two months there’s still one customer they haven’t seen: the greasy rich man. All the paintings speculate he’s heard wind of Jungsoo’s state from one of the others and knows better than to show his face. Kangin thinks so, too, but he won’t admit to it. He can tell Jungsoo is clinging to him as a sort of lifeline. “Have to take a shower today,” Jungsoo will mutter. “What if he comes by? Can’t afford to look shabby.”

Then, one day, there’s a knock on the door. They all know it’s him. Jungsoo jumps up, fixes his hair, throws on a jacket over the shirt he’s been wearing for the past three days, and runs up the stairs to greet him.

“Leeteuk, my good man!” the greasy rich man says exuberantly, clasping his hand. “When I saw the change of ownership outside, I was afraid you’d left us for good. You can’t imagine my surprise when I heard from one of my colleagues that you had gone in—to a new studio. I came straight over. Now, show me your new work. I want to see everything.”

Kangin doesn’t like something about his demeanor, but can’t put his finger on what. Jungsoo leads the man around the basement, showing him this painting and that. The man makes a show of listening interestedly, but his eyes have been on Kangin since he walked down the stairs. After the third painting, he speaks his mind.

“My offer still stands for that statue.”

Jungsoo whips around to glare at him. “My answer is still no.”

“Don’t trifle with me, boy.” The man steps closer, looming over Jungsoo. “I know exactly what you’ve fallen to these past few months. The entirety of the art world knows. No one with half a brain wants any truck with a madman—I alone have a refined enough eye to see the diamond in the rough. You cannot afford to reject my offer. There will be no others.”

Jungsoo looks up at him with a steely glare. “If all you came here to do was insult me, then you can get the hell out of my studio.”

The man stares back at him for a long moment, then, without a word, turns on his heel and marches up the stairs.

“Call me if you change your mind,” he says over his shoulder before closing the door.

As soon as he’s gone, Jungsoo wilts. “What have I done?” He paces in circles around the basement. “I’ll never make a sale again unless he gets his way. Why am I so stubborn? It’s just a damn  _statue_ —!” He turns as if to yell at Kangin, but as soon as their eyes meet, the anger melts off his face.

“Who am I kidding?” Jungsoo walks over and perches on Kangin’s base, leaning his back against Kangin’s leg. “You’re my only friend, Kangin. I could never sell you to someone like him.” He curls his legs up to his chest and runs his fingers through his hair. “Truth is, I don’t think I could ever sell you at all. I don’t know what I would do living here…alone…” His back trembles as he starts to cry.

Kangin’s hand is just inches from his face. He concentrates all of his effort, wills it to become alive, to reach out and wipe the tear from Jungsoo’s cheek.  _Please, magic…I’m begging you…_  But the stone doesn’t budge.

“Why the hell isn’t it working?!” Kangin growls. “All I want is to comfort him! What’s so wrong about that?”

“There’s nothing wrong with it, Kangin,” Inyoung answers gently. “But think of it like this: you feel that way because he needs you now. What would you do if one day he decided to sell you?”

“That—you—” Kangin fumbles, but he has no answer to that question, and he knows it. “That’s too hard.”

“Nobody said becoming alive was easy.”

Just as the greasy rich man said, the news that the once-great Leeteuk has lost it seems to have spread to every possible customer, even the occasional casual art buyers who used to fill in the gaps in Jungsoo’s budget. Jungsoo counts his money and finds that he only has enough for this month’s rent unless something changes, and after three weeks, there’s no sign of that happening. He starts to disappear during the day, telling Kangin he’s going out to get a “real job” that actually pays. But at the same time, his mental state continues to deteriorate. He’ll be fine for a week or so, then go two days without getting out of bed. The next day he’ll come back and tell Kangin he’s been fired. The cycle repeats. When the day to pay the next month’s rent comes, he doesn’t have enough.

The landlord pounds twice on the door, then barges in and stomps down the stairs. “Rent!” he demands.

Jungsoo flinches and shrinks back from him. “I…don’t have enough.”

“You  _what_?!”

“T-this is all I have.” Jungsoo holds out his wallet, hand quivering.

The landlord snatches it and pulls out all of the cash inside, running his grubby fingers over it to count it. “You’re two hundred short.”

“I know. I’m sorry. Just give me another week—”

The landlord drops the wallet and grabs Jungsoo by the collar of his shirt, slamming him back against the wall. “Listen here, you goddamned waste of oxygen. I have had it up to  _here_  with your bullshit. I may not be able to get that two hundred out of you now, but if  _every cent you earn_ doesn’t go  _straight to me_  until you’ve paid it off, I  _will_  find a way to  _make_  you pay.” He gives Jungsoo a final shove to mark his point, then lets him go, pocketing the cash before he storms out.

“You get your ass back here!” Kangin yells after him. “I’m not done with you!” But it’s useless; he can only fume in perfect stillness as he watches Jungsoo stand, wavering, and pick his wallet off the floor.

Jungsoo knows better than to show his face around the house much until he can pay off his debt. Kangin doesn’t see him eat a single crumb, and guesses he must be getting his food outside, so the landlord can’t see him spending money on something else. In a week he’s earned the extra two hundred and life can go back to normal, but now he’s that much further behind on the next month’s rent. The scene repeats itself. This time Jungsoo walks away with a few bruises, though he tries to hide them from Kangin, slipping into the bathroom to change his shirt as if he’s ashamed.

Jungsoo is fragile, and he is fragile because he is alive.

Just when it seems that things can’t get any worse, a call comes for Jungsoo from the hospital.

“Is this Park Jungsoo? You’re listed as the emergency contact. Your mother is sick.”

Jungsoo’s face goes white. He sinks down onto the bed and listens as the doctor describes the sickness with a lot of words that mean nothing to Kangin, along with a few that do: “We can cure her, but without insurance the drug costs about 5,400 dollars.”

It takes Jungsoo a minute to swallow that number. “A-alright. I’ll take care of it. Can you just give me a few days to get the money together? My budget’s a bit tight right now.”

The doctor says they can give him a week, no longer, and hangs up. Jungsoo pulls at his hair and looks up at Kangin. “What am I going to do?”

Kangin has no answer for that. Jungsoo is still in debt for the month, and has one, maybe two hundred dollars hidden away. A good sale would take care of the bill with money to spare, but it’s been months since he’s had one of those. Unless he gets a new customer, there’s no chance of Jungsoo finding the money.

Jungsoo goes out to work for the next few days, leaving at odd hours, only coming back occasionally to sleep. On the morning of the sixth day after the call he brings his pay back and counts it.

“916 dollars and 23 cents,” he says, “with the rest I had from before. Not even a thousand dollars. And I have two days left…” Jungsoo looks at Kangin for a long time without speaking. Then, suddenly, he stands up and walks outside, taking his phone with him.

When Jungsoo comes back there’s a grave expression on his face. He doesn’t look at Kangin as he turns off the lights and climbs into bed, and though Kangin waits for him to say good night, he never does.

“Looks like our favorite rock is getting sold,” the lady in the green dress taunts.

“It was only a matter of time,” the abstract painting agrees.

“What are you two talking about?” Kangin demands. “Jungsoo himself said he would never sell me.”

“Don’t be dense,” the hand holding the book says. “Oh, wait—you can’t help it!” The others erupt into a chorus of laughter. “You saw how suspiciously he went outside to make that call. I bet he called that rich client of his and just couldn’t bring himself to do it in front of you.”

“But…he…Inyoung, tell them!”

“I’m sorry, Kangin,” Inyoung says, voice laden with sympathy. “But I think they’re right. You’re the only one here with an offer still standing.”

“He can’t!” Kangin says, but regrets the words as soon as they come out.

“I’m sure if there was any other option, he would take it,” Inyoung says. “But our mother’s sick, and there’s nothing else he can do.”

Kangin knows full well that she’s right. That doesn’t stop him from hating it.  _Why did things have to end up this way?!_

“Don’t get so full of yourself,” the abstract painting scoffs. “You’re just a statue. It’s patently irrational that he’s held on to you for so long.”

“I’m not!” But the painting’s words come in to land on him like vultures on a rotting corpse.  _You are. In the end, you’re nothing but a chunk of stone._  He spends the rest of the night arguing with himself, angry thoughts crashing against each other like rocks.

In the evening, the greasy rich man comes to the door as expected. Jungsoo drags himself out of bed at his knock.

“It’s good to hear you’ve seen sense, Leeteuk,” the rich man says. “Rest assured, the world will know of your recovery.”

Jungsoo just shushes him. “Don’t let my landlord hear you. Come down here.”

The rich man walks down the stairs and looks around. For a second, Kangin hopes that he’ll walk over to one of the other works—but his eyes fall on Kangin last, and she makes a beeline to the back of the basement. “Still in good condition, I see,” he says, making a slow circle around Kangin. “Measurements?”

“60 by 60 by 183, including the base.”

“Very well. I’ll send the movers over on Monday to pick it up.” He pulls a sheet of paper out of his briefcase and hands it to Jungsoo. “There’s the contract.”

Kangin hears the scratch of Jungsoo’s pen on the paper. “And my payment?”

“Right.” The rich man takes the contract back and pulls out his checkbook. “We agreed on…”

“90 thousand, with a 5% nonrefundable deposit paid upon signing,” Jungsoo finishes.

“Of course.” He writes a check, tears it out, and hands it to Jungsoo with a flourish. “Here you are, then. The rest will follow once it’s installed.”

Jungsoo nods, staring down at the check. He doesn’t see his guest out.

“Just enough,” he says finally, setting the check next to the rest of his money in the drawer where he keeps it hidden. He calls the hospital to tell them he’ll send the money along the next day. Then, slowly, dragging his feet, he walks around to sit on the bed in front of Kangin.

“I’m sorry,” Jungsoo says. “I wished I could have kept you. If it was just me, you know I wouldn’t have done it—right?”

Kangin has no response; anger has inflamed every strand of his mind.

“Ah, never mind,” Jungsoo says finally, shaking his head. “You can’t hear me anyways. It’s better if I stop pretending that you’re—”

His sentence is cut short by the basement door slamming open. “Where the hell is he?!” the landlord’s voice booms from the top of the stairs. His beady eyes settle on Jungsoo. “ _You._ ” Staggering slightly, he makes his way down. Jungsoo scrambles to his feet and backs up, only to run into a wall.

“You’ve been hiding money from me,” the landlord says. His face is red and his whole body reeks of beer.

“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jungsoo stammers.

“Don’t you lie to me! I saw that rich asshole leaving the house. I know he pays you. Give it to me.”

Jungsoo shrinks back into the wall. “P-please, just give me a c-couple days, then I’ll give you enough money for the next y-year, I swear! The hospital says I have to p-pay them by tomorrow—”

“ _You owe me money today!_ ” The landlord looks around him, then his eyes fall on a box off to the side—Jungsoo’s sculpting tools. He hefts the largest hammer into his hands. “You’re going to give me that money on the count of three,” he says slowly, stepping forward, “or you—” His foot runs into Kangin’s base and he stops short. Looking up at Kangin, his eyes take on a murderous gleam. “Or I turn this fucker into pebbles.”

“No!” Jungsoo gasps. “Please, can’t we—”

“One!”

“Just—”

“Two!”

Panic flickers across Jungsoo’s face.

“Don’t move!” Kangin yells at him. “He’ll hit you instead!”

“Three!” The hammer comes up, swings.  _Crack!_  A chunk of Kangin’s chest flies off and slides across the floor. Kangin forces down a scream as fire flares up around the missing piece, not scrap rock, but a part of  _him_.

The landlord snarls. “Won’t be so tough if I go for your face.”

“Stop!” Jungsoo yells. But the landlord is determined now. He lifts the hammer and takes aim. Jungsoo darts forward.

“Stay put, you idiot!” Kangin shouts. “You’ll die!” But it’s too late. Time seems to slow down for Kangin as the two move together, the hammer on one side, Jungsoo on the other. Kangin orders something, anything, on his body to move.  _Even if I go right back to being a rock, even if I get sold and never see him again, for just one second—just one arm—be alive!!_

There’s a thundering crack as Kangin’s hand swings up and the head of the hammer lands in one strong palm. Both Jungsoo and the landlord stagger back from him in shock. Kangin wrests the hammer from the landlord’s hand and lets out a bellowing roar.

A squeal escapes from the landlord’s lips. “ _Monster!_ ” He turns tail and runs. Feeling rushes into Kangin’s legs and he barrels after, up the stairs and out the door—

“Kangin!” Jungsoo’s hand catches him from behind. Kangin stops short. “Leave him. It’s okay, he’s not coming back.”

Kangin stares blankly at Jungsoo’s hand wrapped around his arm, soft, tan skin pressing against soft, tan skin. Jungsoo gently pries the hammer free and lets it clatter to the floor. He’s still quivering. Kangin shakes his head to clear his mind—his head  _moves_ —then does the only natural thing, which is to reach out and pull Jungsoo close with every ounce of strength his arms can muster.

Jungsoo wraps his arms tight around Kangin’s waist and buries his face in Kangin’s shoulder. “You’re....” He chokes on a knot in his throat, a tear squeezing out onto Kangin’s skin.

“Alive,” Kangin finishes his sentence. “I’m alive.” He can feel the thumping in Jungsoo’s chest, now joined by a new beat of his own.

Jungsoo’s head snaps up suddenly, and he pulls back. “But you’re hurt!” He looks down and runs his fingers along a deep scar on Kangin’s chest where the hammer hit him. Kangin winces as he does; it still stings. “I’m so sorry, I—”

“I’m fine, I’m fine.” Kangin pushes back Jungsoo’s bangs and kisses him on the forehead. “I’m just happy that I could protect you.” And for the first time, Kangin can give him a real smile.

Then Jungsoo starts crying again, of course, and Kangin holds him tight again, of course, until he finally calms down. (And Kangin will never admit to it, but maybe a little condensation escapes from his eyes, too.)

*

Somehow, everything else manages to work itself out. The rich man is none too happy to find that the new centerpiece of his foyer is suddenly very much not made of marble, but he’s so shocked to see Kangin walking around on his own two legs that he forgets to complain about the deposit. Jungsoo sends him off with the sketches and clay models from the sculpting process, and he seems placated enough. Jungsoo gives the check to the hospital before he can remember to be angry.

Rumors of the human statue begin to float around, and suddenly Leeteuk is the hottest name in art, and everyone who’s anyone wants to visit his ultra-exclusive basement gallery where the magic is supposed to have happened. The prices of his work skyrocket, mostly on the back of the superstition that each one has a small chance of coming to life, which Jungsoo neither confirms nor denies.

They never see the landlord again. He calls a few months later and offers to turn over the deed on the condition that he doesn’t have to meet with them in person, and that’s the last they hear of him.

As for Kangin, he has a few things to learn about being human, like speaking politely and using chopsticks, but Jungsoo is patient with him even if he himself is not. Eventually he adjusts enough to be able to work a normal job and blend in with regular society. Once he’s fully independent, he decides to wander a bit, to see the world.

But he never wanders too far. And if anyone ever tries to give Park Jungsoo trouble, before they can even lay a hand on him, they’ll meet a man with fists like rock who teaches them not to try again.


End file.
